Picture him in oil upon an easel
As a weasel with a long and solemn jaw -
Or perhaps you should be painting him in diesel
With a teazle made of steel inside his paw.
He's a man whose blank expression rarely wavers,
One who savours the saliva on his tongue,
Is distinctly disinclined to granting favours,
Never quavers when another knell is rung.
For he's not the sort of man to mollycoddle:
In his noddle there's an automatic spring.
His emotions? like a Madame Tussaud model:
But a prod'll make him finish anything.
And his hand seems made to hold a little hatchet,
While a ratchet moves the cogs inside his mind;
If there's Scrooging, he's a Marley who can match it,
And the Cratchits are to quicker fates consigned.